On New Year’s morning, 1992,
it snowed. You shivered, touched me, kissed me, said
you loved me. I waved goodbye to you
and went into the winter. Wind cut through
your bones like knives, your skin, it was so cold
on New Year’s morning, 1992
you died and I did not. I dreamed I knew
that high above the snow you were not dead,
you loved me. I waved goodbye to you
and climbed up on the garden wall at noon,
breathed the roses, touched them, bled.
On New Year’s morning, 1992
you walked away from winter, went into
some secret bloodless season. I told
you that I loved you, said goodbye to you.
Equinox. Today the crocus bloomed.
Snow is melting. Once we touched and said,
on New Year’s morning, 1992,
I love you. I love you.
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